stream for several minutes, unmoving. As the sleep that had been clinging to him began to recede, he rolled his head from side to side, stretched his back, then his shoulders.
When he walked out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, clean and dry and awake, he found Orlando sitting on the bed, a paper sack and a plastic shopping bag beside her.
“Good morning,” he said.
“All right, we can go with morning, if that’s what you’d like,” she replied.
He gave her a playful sneer, then removed a fresh set of clothes from his suitcase.
“I see you got breakfast,” he said as he pulled on his shirt.
“Lunch, actually. We missed breakfast,” she said. “We’ve almost missed lunch, too.”
She tossed something at him. His watch. He caught it and looked at the display as he pulled it over his wrist. 3:41 p.m.
Once Orlando opened the paper bag the smell of burgers and fries wafted from inside. She handed one of the sandwiches to him.
“I also brought this.”
From the plastic bag she withdrew a newspaper, and held it up so he could see it.
It was the
SPY CHIEF DEAD
Then below it in smaller type:
DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF
NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE
JACKSON MURDERED
But neither was what caught Quinn’s eye, nor were they the reason Orlando was holding the paper up. It was the sketch above the fold that was of interest, an artist’s rendition of the man police were looking for in connection with the crime.
“I don’t think the guy could have done better if I’d posed for him,” Quinn said.
The image was definitely Quinn.
“Yeah,” Orlando said. “I was thinking about cutting it out and framing it.”
“Were you?” He was trying to joke back, but funny was the last thing he felt at the moment.
He grabbed the paper from her so he could get a better look. The nose was off, and the eyes were too close together, but it was still a near enough match for someone to make the connection. The caption under the picture read:
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING
. Composite sketch of man believed to have been driving the car containing the body of Deputy Director Jackson.
“Dammit,” Quinn said. He tossed the paper onto the bed.
“Hey, you’re still free,” Orlando said. She reached into the plastic bag again, pulled out a box. “Besides, you need a haircut anyway.” From inside she removed a pair of electric hair shears. “I’ve also got some hair dye, and a few other things to change you up.”
He tried to smile.
“Food first, though,” she said.
The idea of food wasn’t very appealing, but he knew he would need the energy.
While they ate, he flipped on the TV and turned it to CNN. Better to see what else was being reported than to ignore it. No surprise. All the news was focused on the death of Deputy Director Jackson. There was a background story on him, interviews with people he’d known and worked with over the years, a review of the events from the previous evening, and an update on the manhunt for the person who matched the police sketch, the image prominently displayed on the screen. Otherwise, there was nothing that was new.
“I miss the days when news wasn’t so immediate,” Quinn said.
“I don’t remember those days,” Orlando said.
“Go to hell, you’re not that much younger than me.”
“But I am younger.”
Quinn glanced at his watch again: 3:52.
“Nate up yet?” Quinn asked.
“At least an hour. I sent him out to ditch the car and find us something new.”
On the TV, a
“… by sources within the investigation,” the male anchor was saying. “Police were apparently led to an abandoned apartment building by something discovered in the car the body had been found in. It was at this building the suspect was discovered.”
“There was nothing in the car that would lead them there,” Quinn said.
“What suspect?” Orlando asked.
